There are so many images that remind me of Paul O'Neill's career with the Yankees, a career in which he helped them win four championships in his nine seasons. Images of pivotal hits, bulldozing slides, lunging catches and percolating emotions. Watching O'Neill play was like watching a simmering tea kettle. Eventually, he was going to boil over.

But the image of O'Neill that lingers with me more than any other has nothing to do with his hits, slides or explosions. It has everything to do with his disdain for losing. When I think of O'Neill, I remember him sitting in front of his locker after a loss, his elbows resting on his knees, his hair flaring in 13 directions and a scowl decorating his face.

In those moments, O'Neill looked as unapproachable as a 300-pound bouncer who just

The comparison is there, even if some Yankee fans are reticent to concede it. When you watch Kevin Youkilis moan about a close call, fling his bat or go into a dugout rage after an out, you should be reminded of another fiery player from the recent past. You should see shades of Paul O’Neill.

Before some of the O’Neill acolytes explode, relax. This doesn’t mean Youkilis and O’Neill are exactly the same player with the exact accomplishments. Of course, they’re not. What it means is that Youkilis and O’Neill share the same style for playing baseball with an intensity that’s visible to everyone and with an approach that chases perfection.

“He expects to get a hit every time up,” Joe Torre often said while trying to explain some of O’Neill’s

Paul O’Neill wears two gold wedding bands on his left hand. The thicker band is his. The thinner band belonged to his father. It is something O’Neill has worn since Charles, his Dad, passed away almost 11 years ago.

During the 2000 World Series, I interviewed O’Neill as he walked out of Shea Stadium after Game 4. The Yankees were one win away from clinching their third straight championship, but I didn’t want to ask O’Neill about baseball. I wanted to ask him how much he was thinking about his father, who had died during the 1999 World Series.

We walked across the concrete corridor of Shea together. When I finally asked O’Neill about his father, he stopped walking so he could show me something. He held out his left hand and used his right fingers to